


out of body

by gatusu (orphan_account)



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fuckbuddies, Light Angst, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 10:20:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10511784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/gatusu
Summary: By now, it's easy for Taeyong to tell the nights apart.





	

By now, it’s easy for Taeyong to tell the nights apart. 

Yuta has long since stopped calling him in advance to let him know about their meetings, but surprisingly, Taeyong doesn’t mind it. Despite the older’s preference for schedules, he finds he never needs to know of Yuta’s appearances at all because months of the same gag has transformed from abrupt arrivals to random yet recurrent frequencies, and despite never developing a pattern nights with Yuta turn to routine (and if there’s one thing Taeyong is good at, it’s following routines). Taeyong learns how to read the foreign boy like a sixth sense, and it’s that very sense that holds him tense now, the weight of anticipation heavy and burdening on his shoulders.

The door clicks as the knob is turned, and Taeyong is on his feet before Yuta even steps over the threshold.

The room is dark, pitch-black, the only sources of light being the soft, orange glow from the streetlight outside of Taeyong’s window that slips in through the cracks of his blinds, and the face of the small alarm clock by Taeyong’s bed, bright, solid green letters reading the time: just ten minutes to two in the morning. 

The room shrinks considerably, and suddenly it feels as if there’s not enough room for each of the two boys to even breathe, but Taeyong knows better. It isn’t their bodies taking up the space, but rather the tension. 

Tension. That’s it. Not fear, not hesitation, not even regret—no, Taeyong thinks, that’s something that comes later, the cold cavern in his chest he wakes up with the morning after. Right now, it’s just tension, thick and heavy and unbearable. 

Another _click_ as the door is shut; Taeyong is there to meet Yuta now. Yuta’s greeting is the arms that immediately wind themselves around Taeyong’s neck, and the presence of the younger’s lips on his jaw as he nuzzles into the side of his face. Taeyong’s body reacts, jumping into action, and soon Taeyong’s own hands find themselves on Yuta’s waist, pulling the other boy close. 

The darkness of the room that swallows the both of them doesn’t hinder Taeyong, but rather heightens the rest of his senses. He knows the boy pressed against him with his arms around his neck and his breath warm in his ear and with Taeyong’s heart in his hands is Yuta Nakamoto because he hears him, smells him, _feels_ him, and suddenly the memory of Yuta and how he tastes fills Taeyong’s mind and mouth. He knows it’s Yuta because he smells the shampoo lingering in his brown hair, and the warm, familiar scent of his skin, something inexplicable yet comforting all the same, like the way Taeyong’s childhood home smells like, or the way the air smells when springtime fades and the beginning of summer smiles at the earth warmly; Yuta’s expensive cologne tinges the scent at its edges. 

Taeyong knows it’s Yuta because his hands are at the back of Taeyong’s neck, in his hair, at his sides, sliding up his shirt, soft palms and calloused fingers meeting flushed skin.

Something is off. The usual frenzied panic for sex of their meetings isn’t there; tonight, there are no impatient hands, sloppy kissing, eager tongues tasting the expanse of skin—or, at least, not yet, Taeyong tells himself, tightening the grip on Yuta’s waist as the tip of the younger’s nose ghosts the shell of his ear, sending shivers up his spine, every one of his exhales painfully audible. Something is off, indeed, because tonight they are strangely intimate, holding each other close, teasing like lovers. 

But that is not what they are. This, Taeyong knows for sure, and playing the act makes his heart burn and twist within his chest, so he instead opts to pull Yuta away from the side of his neck, the warm imprint of his breath still remaining, and roughly pushes him against the door he’s just stepped through. Taeyong’s lips meet Yuta’s in an instant, and a switch seems to flip as they do, and finally the Yuta Taeyong has come to know so well in nights like these surfaces. 

Yuta tilts his head, opening his mouth, and his tongue meets Taeyong’s, warm and slick against his own. Yuta’s hands are threaded in the older’s hair, pulling impatiently, and Taeyong’s lips leave Yuta’s own but not Yuta’s skin, soft flesh trailing across his jaw as the younger tilts his head farther, allowing Taeyong more room to do whatever he pleases. Taeyong takes this as the invitation to suck a hickey onto Yuta’s throat, nipping the skin lightly, and he hears Yuta’s breath hitch and feels his grip on his hair tighten automatically.

Taeyong almost snickers. Gaining confidence, Taeyong litters the expanse of Yuta’s neck with bites, trailing downwards until he meets the fabric of his shirt, which he tugs at the hem of deliberately. Yuta understands immediately, wrenching his shirt off from over his head, and Taeyong takes the time to do the same. When he raises his head again, though, he sees Yuta’s gaze fixed on him in the dark, his expression hungry, eyes raking over Taeyong’s figure. Taeyong hopes it’s too dark for Yuta to see him blush, but he only gets to think of that for a moment before Yuta is on him, hands flying across Taeyong’s newly exposed skin, even though it’s nothing Yuta hasn’t seen before—after all, haven’t they been doing this for months now?

Yuta’s lips meet Taeyong’s again, fervent and desperate, and Taeyong can already feel how Yuta is half-hard through his pants. Yuta kisses Taeyong so roughly he feels their teeth clack, and he tilts his head as if to tell Yuta to slow down, but he knows himself that it’s bullshit. Nights like these, there’s no such thing as slowing down—not when they’re like this. 

Taeyong manages to keep himself intact for the entirety of their makeout session until Yuta finally runs out of patience and ruts his hips into Taeyong’s needily, drawing a moan out of the both of them, their faces still so close together Taeyong can feel Yuta’s breath on his chin. The younger repeats the action, slow this time, deliberate, rolling his hips against Taeyong’s erection, and Taeyong’s mind spins with desire, pulsing to match the beat of his heart. This time around, their pants leave them, boxers following suite. Taeyong groans once his erection hits the cool air, sliding out of the confinement of his jeans. He doesn’t have time to relish in the feeling, though, before a very different sensation envelops him, wet and slick and _hot._

Yuta takes him all at once, an expert after countless times of practice. Taeyong curses under his breath, his head lolling back against the wall as Yuta works on him lazily. He switches between his mouth and his hand but is skilled at both—Taeyong bites on his lip to hold back a moan as Yuta strokes casually up over his length, his head bobbing up and down to match the rhythm of his hand, but it’s not until Yuta’s tongue slides over the tip of his erection one too many times and Taeyong’s hips buck up into Yuta’s mouth that Taeyong’s head snaps up to look at him. 

Much to his surprise, he sees Yuta’s eyes staring straight back at him, dark and clouded with heat and lust. The effect it has on Taeyong is alarming, and he feels his own cock twitch. He groans inwardly, wondering what aches more: his chest or his dick. 

Taeyong knows if he lets Yuta keep it up, he’ll come before he even gets a chance to touch him—so it’s with that thought in mind that he pulls Yuta off of him by the hair and instead drags him into bed, the two of them stumbling with their own impatience. They manage to reach the bed from the door in a matter of six seconds flat; Taeyong pushes Yuta down onto the mattress with a forearm on his chest, and the perspiration that’s already begun to bead on the canvas of Yuta’s skin makes him pull it back warm. He snatches the bottle of lube tucked between the mattress and the headboard and spurts a generous amount of it into the palm of his hand, so much he knows it’ll drip down Yuta’s legs and cause a mess over the sheets, but for once, Taeyong doesn’t care.

Yuta is practically buzzing with excitement, knowing what’s about to come as Taeyong slicks the lube over his fingers. He wraps his arms around Taeyong’s neck and pulls him down to plant a kiss on his jaw, sucking a hickey into the skin the way Taeyong had done to him earlier.

“If you’re cuddling me like that, I won’t be able to see what I’m doing, you know,” Taeyong mutters underneath his breath, and Yuta laughs, soft and dry. “You don’t need to see me. Just touch me,” He murmurs in response, rocking his hips upwards so that his and Taeyong’s cocks meet, and Taeyong exhales into Yuta’s neck. His hand, cool with lube, slides down the inside of Yuta’s thigh, and Taeyong feels him shiver beneath him. “Spread your legs,” Taeyong orders, simply for the sake of ordering him, knowing full well Yuta would have obliged without hesitation on his own either way.

The first finger slides in easily enough, and so does the second, but the third makes Yuta’s breath hitch. Taeyong works into him, slowly at first, at first simply because he has to for the sake of prepping Yuta but it soon turns into obvious taunting, thrusting into the boy much too slow and too shallow for his liking. “Stop being a tease,” Yuta attempts to growl, but with the need evident in his voice it comes out sounding more like a whine. Taeyong chuckles softly, finally complying, building up the speed and depth of his thrusts as he fingers him, making Yuta grow louder and more restless with every passing moment.

Taeyong knows he’s hit Yuta’s prostate when he inhales sharply, arms hooked around Taeyong’s neck like a chokehold, groaning into Taeyong’s hair. Taeyong tries for the spot again and succeeds, an audible moan now falling from Yuta’s lips.

“F-fuck me,” Yuta gasps then, stammering on his words, and Taeyong hums in response. _“Taeyong,”_ Yuta tries again, desperate, and Taeyong finds he likes the way his name sounds on Yuta’s tongue like that, twisted and wrecked with desire. The idea that pops into his head passes through his lips immediately afterwards without contemplation; Taeyong himself isn’t sure he’s the one who’s speaking when he murmurs into Yuta’s ear, soft but obviously dominant: “Beg.”

Yuta stills beneath him, and Taeyong thinks he can feel goosebumps on the younger’s skin. There’s a beat, where Yuta’s eyes flit to his, bottom lip between his teeth, attentive yet hesitant, obviously on edge. Taeyong growls and thrusts his fingers into him again, curling his fingers inside of him in a way that makes Yuta’s body jerk and back arch with the sensation and Yuta withers. “Please, please, _please,_ hyung, I need you to fuck me,” Yuta whimpers, voice raw and cracking, squirming desperately under Taeyong’s touch. 

The latter locks eyes with him, racking in the sight of Yuta below him, the deep flush covering the younger’s cheeks—whether it was the result of being pressed against Taeyong for so long or having to beg for the older to fuck him, Taeyong can’t tell—visible even through the dark. Yuta is panting, staring back up at Taeyong through lidded dark eyes, gaze intensely lustful, soft lips parted slightly, the fringe of his hair pressed to his forehead with sweat, and it’s the sight of him combined with the way he calls Taeyong _hyung_ that drives him over the edge, and he rushedly pumps himself with his lube-coated hand, ignoring the way the simple action sends electricity up his spine. On the inside, Taeyong is needy too, and his dick aches for more friction. By now, he can’t tell who needs the other more, him or Yuta, and the moment he presses inside, slowly and purposefully, the both of them let go of a breath they didn’t know they were holding. 

Once he’s all the way in, though, Yuta squirms beneath him once more, impatient, nails digging slightly into the skin of his shoulders. “Make me scream,” Yuta breathes into Taeyong’s ear, voice low, and the words send goosebumps all over the older’s arms. Taeyong hisses in response—he doesn’t need to be told twice. 

Finally, Taeyong starts thrusting, keeping a steady pace that makes the bed rock against the wall, a dull rhythm, and a moan that’s both of relief and pleasure falls from Yuta’s lips. A hand finds itself tangled in Taeyong’s hair while the other grasps his shoulder, and his grip on Taeyong’s scalp tightens with every thrust as Taeyong takes the initiative to pick up his pace.

Taeyong’s going fast now, breathing faster, and the bed thuds against the wall in time with his rhythm. Yuta seems to lose any remaining shreds of restraint or dignity because he’s moaning nonstop now, loud and filthy right by Taeyong’s ear, a loud curse flying out whenever Taeyong so much as brushes his prostate—which happens more and more by the moment—panting all over Taeyong’s sensitive neck. Taeyong bites his lip to keep from screaming how much Yuta’s driving him insane, how hot he sounds with his voice raw and breathing ragged, how much he likes it when Yuta’s strong legs are wrapped around him and his hands are fisted in Taeyong’s hair, but it still comes out in the form of strangled moans and strained comments along the lines of _“Fuck, baby, you feel so good”_ , pet names and praise slipping from his mouth impulsively, which only results in Yuta moaning louder in response.

It’s when Taeyong has hit Yuta’s prostate one too many times that his hips buck up just in time to meet Taeyong’s next thrust, and the sensation makes Taeyong’s mind go blank and his vision white. He knows the action has the same effect on the boy below him because Yuta spews a curse in Japanese, and Taeyong is transfixed by the way the words fall from Yuta’s mouth in his mother tongue, smoother and more natural than his Korean ever could. 

Taeyong’s close now, he knows, with the way that the blood in his veins starts boiling white-hot and currents of electricity race up his spine faster than ever. His pace begins to falter but the severity of his thrusts don’t, and by the way Yuta’s mouth runs nonstop in a jumble of groans and phrases in Korean and Japanese both, he knows Yuta’s close too. 

“Fuck, hyung, I can’t— _fuck,”_ Yuta pants, and moves his hand down as if to touch himself, but Taeyong grabs his wrist suddenly, pinning it back into the mattress. “Don’t,” he breathes, and Yuta lets out a cracked whine, complying nevertheless. 

Taeyong is so close to the edge he’s teetering, and he pulls out roughly to join his cock with Yuta’s trembling one, groaning as he strokes the both of them together. 

He comes on the fourth pump of their cocks together, spilling over his hands and dripping on Yuta’s toned stomach. The latter comes immediately after, back arching. _“Taeyong,”_ falls from Yuta’s lips in a broken moan as he does, and Taeyong knows that if it were possible to come again simply just from hearing it, he would’ve.

Taeyong collapses onto the mattress by Yuta, spent, and the younger—with the last ounce of energy he has left in him—turns to throw an arm around Taeyong’s neck, burying his face in his chest. 

Taeyong’s skin burns where Yuta touches him, and he knows they’re both downright messes, but he finds he’s too tired to even care, much less do something about it. Instead, his arm comes up to wrap around Yuta, and he leaves it there, despite everything in his mind screaming at him not to. 

The two of them lie in silence, struggling to come down from their high, and Taeyong closes his eyes. In the dark, his remaining senses heighten once more, and he’s suddenly accutely aware of the way every one of Yuta’s exhales tickle his chest, warm and irregular. He shifts his face slightly so that his nose finds itself in Yuta’s hair, and he inhales Yuta’s scent, expecting the same one he’d smelled once Yuta first arrived at his apartment (what now seems like a lifetime ago). Instead, the scent that greets him is drastically different, the familiarity concealed by the musk of sweat mixed with Yuta’s cologne again, a smell that is chemical yet strangely pleasant. 

Taeyong opens his eyes again and glances over to the softly glowing face of the alarm clock on his bedside table, which reads affirmatively: _3:04 am._

The number passes Taeyong’s vision and flies through his mind but he doesn’t quite register it, not fully. His brain registers the feeling of Yuta’s body against him instead, just resting, and replays the sound of his name on Yuta’s tongue, his voice primal and filthy and glowing red. That very voice rings in Taeyong’s ears then, except this time, it is soft and vulnerable and pale white. “I love you, Taeyong,” Yuta murmurs into Taeyong’s chest, lips pressed to his collarbone, and the words pass through his skin and echo in his ribcage, the vibrations making his heart shudder. 

Taeyong opens his mouth to respond and finds nothing to say back. It doesn’t matter, anyways, because he notices then that Yuta has already fallen asleep, his breathing is deep and even against his skin. _Typical,_ Taeyong thinks to himself, biting his lip. 

It’s not fair. Not fair, the way everything Yuta does makes Taeyong’s heart constrict and his stomach churn and mind cloud, and the best he can do to him back is get Yuta to ask Taeyong to fuck him. The thought makes Taeyong laugh alone in the dark, dry and bittersweet. Being with Yuta makes Taeyong shrink in his own body, and suddenly he’s a teenager again, fidgety and anxious and quiet around the crush he doesn’t know how to act around. 

Except Yuta isn’t a crush. A crush is a word that’s lighthearted and playful, a word for the butterflies in your stomach and the soft blush on your cheeks when someone’s around. But for Taeyong, there are no butterflies, no blushing, no hesitant brushes of skin and stares of longing. No—rather, for him, there’s the hollow in his stomach, big and black and guilty, one that threatens to swallow him from the inside out.

There’s the throb of his cock when he’s alone touching himself and Yuta’s face and eyes and mouth and lips and hands invade his mind, and when he comes onto his own hand the thoughts are replaced with Yuta’s smile, Yuta’s laugh, Yuta’s lips on his in a way that’s loving and genuine and not a query for sex. 

There’s the feeling of Yuta clinging to him when they’re fucking and he’s about to come and holds onto Taeyong for dear life, and even with them chest to chest and mouth to mouth and skin to skin, Taeyong feels like Yuta is worlds away because he’s only ever willing to give Taeyong his body, not his heart. 

And now, there’s the feeling of Yuta sleeping in his arms, and words he didn’t mean engraved into Taeyong’s memory. How easy it would be, he thinks, to say it back, out loud in the dark to no one but himself. To a sleeping boy cuddled to his chest, so faraway. To let himself pretend that he could close his eyes without opening them to an empty bed in the morning; to let himself pretend that they were lovers—but that is not what they are. This, Taeyong knows for sure.

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first fic ive actually ever written (and finished) in god knows how long, so im really sorry for how stiff and styleless my writing is. hopefully this can just be a warm up and ill be easing myself back into the works of things soon, and of course all comments and kudos are greatly appreciated!
> 
> title and fic inspired by teenage fever by drake


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